Angel Demons

A girl, phoned.

"Phone for you," the barmaid said, handing over the mobile handset.

"Who is it?" the girl asked, taking it. She sat at the bar, all dressed again. The collar had not been really locked, so she could take it off without a key. But it might take a few days for the slight bruise to leave her throat.

Not to mention other bruises.

"I don't know, they didn't tell," the girl said.

She mumbled a hello into the set. Her heartbeat was back to normal; the purplish anger had almost left her face.

"Is that you, honey?" the phone said.

The girl stared at the set as if it had grown teeth. The voice was tiny now, being far away from her ear.

"Please forgive me," it squeaked. "I was a fool."

She knew she had to disconnect and give the damn thing back to the barmaid. But her thumb refused to touch the button, let alone push it.

The metallic voice kept talking.

"Honey?" it asked. "I know you're mad at me and rightfully so. I'm sorry, so very sorry to have scared you.

"It was stupid of me."

The girl brought her lips closer to the microphone, her ear to the receiver.

"I am sorry too," she whispered. "You should not have done that. I loved what we did, but I can't do this, okay?

"Never."

"I understand," the voice answered, slipping deep into her ear, as if living there. It made her shiver. She once more moved the phone away from her ear.

"I understand and I'm sorry. It will not happen again," the distant voice proceeded before allowing a long silence. Then she said: "Are you crying, honey? Please tell me you're not."

The girl swept the tears off her cheeks and said:

"I'm sad, okay. It was all so lovely and then... I really can't do this, okay?"

A sigh came through, electronically distorted.

"I'm so sorry that you feel sad, honey. I can't forgive myself for making you unhappy.

"Darling, please..."

The voice would have gone on, but a hand grabbed the set from the girl's fingers and threw it to the barmaid.

"Enough!" a tall blonde cried out. "Enough tears and silly sadness, girl.

"Let's party!"

***

A woman, disillusioned.

It was maybe half an hour later when the woman on the terrace found the courage to leave her apartment and take the elevator down.

She walked the length of the empty corridor and reached the wide stairs down to the bar. Her shoulders sagged; a brick weighed down her stomach.

For a long time, she'd sat amidst an exploded galaxy of glass splinters, smelling the mocking sweetness of spilled champagne. It used to be a festive smell; now it impersonated doom, the sick scent of utter stupidity.

It took her a long time to find the courage and call the bar, hoping the girl would still be around. To hear her obvious, wounded sadness stabbed her heart; the silent crying broke it.

Now, she stood at the stairwell, looking down into the bar. What if she'd ruined the girl, spoiling her forever? Was she any better than all the other inconsiderate monsters?

Standing there, engulfed by her overwhelming guilt - an entirely new feeling - she missed the shouts and squeals that rose from below. Two girls were dancing, while others ran around pushing them, teasing them, crying out: "kiss! kiss!"

There was a lot of whooping and clapping as the black-haired girl kissed the blonde, sucking her face like a leech. Then a woman with a head full of red curls pushed away the blonde and kissed the dark-haired girl too. There was a wild uproar when the redhead plunged her face between the girl's breasts, making obscene noises.

New dancers joined in, and the whirlwind of women became a milling mass of female bodies.

Then the redhead broke free, pulling the girl with the black mane behind her. She ran to the stairs and up to the private rooms. They both giggled and cheered - tipsily stumbling, flushed with excitement. The woman at the top of the stairs stepped back to allow them passage. For a split second her eyes caught the black-haired girl's.

Not so sad after all, she murmured, watching them run for one of the rooms.

Not so sad at all.

***

A girl, drunk.

The girl stood on the outer steps leading into the bar, petite and dark. There were faces behind her - brunettes, a tall blonde, a red-head.

The thrill she got from seeing her after a week of absence, annoyed the woman. The girl looked bad. She was obviously drunk and swayed on her feet. Her eyes were red-rimmed and watery, as if she'd cried.

But there was a wide, silly grin on her face.

Stepping forward in her short dress and heeled sandals, she threatened to fall. The woman tried to catch her in a reflex, but the girl checked herself, giggling. Then she took a few more uncertain steps, and grabbed the woman, pressing her face between her breasts. She cried as arms closed around her, but then wriggled herself free, pulling back.

Her face was a mess, mascara running.

"You," she said, slurring her words. "You de... desstroy my life. Why? I

love

my life, my friends. I really do! I love this place, I need it. P-please don't do this to me, ever again.

"I hate it. You do these... things with your... your eyes and your voice and I love it, but it scares me. You make me do things I don't want at all... pervjerted things... not at all!

"Oh god, leave me alone!"

While talking she stumbled back, straight into the arms of the waiting women. They held her as they hurled accusing stares at the woman.

"Don't you ever touch her again, you, dirty witch," one, a tall blonde in cut-off jeans, said. "Don't you ever make her cry again or we'll get you and run you off, like the perverted monster you are.

"Leave her alone."

The girl stood swaying in a friend's embrace, the back of her head resting against the woman's chest.

"Monsjter... w-witchsj," she slurred. "Nobody likes w-witches."

The woman stood speechless.

She stared into the drunken girl's eyes. She saw panic and confusion in them. Then they closed and the girl fainted, sinking to the floor.

The woman started forward to catch her, but her friends closed their ranks and ushered her back into the bar.

***

An amazon, enchanted.

The woman was mad at the hurt she felt.

She shouldn't feel hurt. How could she allow a girl like that to get under her skin? A little drunk tourist-nobody, poisoning her days and nights.

What was going on?

The woman decided she would no longer go to the bar. She even considered selling her apartment there - and her shares in the club.

After a week, she got phone calls from friends missing her. She finally met with them and got rather drunk, ending up with a glorious hangover. She also ended up deciding that a silly little fucker and her crowd of fucking idiots would not kick her out of her own fucking bar.

So here she was again, sitting at the bar, dressed in yet another business suit that wasn't quite a business suit, sporting heels that were not business heels and lips that had a most un-businesslike color.

Next to her sat a blond amazon she'd known for quite a while. She was tall and strong, often clad in black motorcycle leathers.

Of late, she'd become a self-proclaimed philosopher - she loved to reflect on dark and mysterious thoughts whenever the woman talked with her. Her world was a place of shadows, she insisted. Nothing seemed to be set, everything floated - nothing was true, nothing was false.

The woman loved to tease her by going with the flow and adopting the blonde's Zen atmosphere. Of course, she was too much of a control freak to believe in the Tao-like fatalism, but it made for wonderful conversation - and maybe a bit of therapy as well.

Tonight, the amazon appeared to be even more morose than usual.

"Whatever we touch," she said with her low, hoarse voice. "Will it be reality?"

The woman grinned.

"Let's try two glasses of wine and see." She chuckled, ordering at the bar.

The blonde didn't touch her glass, even when the woman lifted hers for a toast.

"What's wrong, honey?" she asked.

"You've been with the Arab girl," the amazon started, carefully checking the woman's reaction. Then she went on. "I don't know what she means to you, but I guess you should know..."

The silence went on longer than the woman liked.

"Know what?" she asked, sitting up straighter.

The blonde hesitated, fumbling with her glass. "I wonder what she might mean to you - and vice versa. You often pop up when we're chatting." Her eyes wandered away.

"You see," she then said, "she always meant a lot to me. Why lie? I love her."

The woman felt her eyes strain as she kept staring at the tall blonde who did her utmost not to look back.

She remembered seeing her with the girl in the upstairs Jacuzzi, doing the mock-Empress and slave game. She'd kissed the girl and licked her. It had looked like fun, playful silliness, hadn't it?

"Okay," she said. "What are you telling me?"

"A week ago," the blonde said, haltingly, "the girl approached me. She knocked at my door. We talked about the loving times we'd had before.

"We used to be very close, you know?"

The woman once again saw them running around in a misty world of flying foam, ages ago. She smiled at the memory.

"We still are, you know?"

The blonde almost sounded apologetic when she said that; the woman didn't answer her rhetoric question.

"We, uhm, made love that day," the amazon went on. "And she revisited me after that. She said I was special. She asked if I wanted to be an item with her in here, tell people about us.

"She even proposed to maybe live with me in the outside world."

"A week ago?" the woman asked. The sharpness of her voice seemed to shake the blonde out of her reverie.

"Yes," she said. "Anyway, she said we'd announce our relationship soon. I waited, but I never saw her again."

A week ago had been the day she'd met the girl tottering very drunk at the bar's entrance - scolding her, telling she was a witch and a monster.

"She fucked you that day, a week ago," she said, not even making a question of it.

"Noooo," the blonde groaned. She stretched the "o" with pursing lips. "We never fuck. We make love.

"Oh yes, love."

The woman wondered why the words stung; why the obviously moonstruck woman irritated her. She felt she had to get back at her; hit her with the venom of her sarcasm.

"I wouldn't count on love, honey," she hissed. "Love? Call it wishful thinking."

The blond amazon looked up.

Her eyes focused and her lips adopted an ironic smile that only lifted one corner of her mouth.

"As should you, darling, knowing better, shouldn't you?" she said, chuckling with acid humor. "As I said - she told me about you two.

"She told me a lot."

Then her smile warmed and her hand reached out to touch the woman's wrist, almost like a peace offering.

"I know she feels attracted to you," she said. "But you scare the sweet shit out of her. She may have said she loves you. I'm almost certain she did - she might even believe it.

"She loves to say, "I love you" to whomever fucks her last, you know?"

The words sprang out of the warm smile like a bucket of ice water.

"Your comment was bitter," the blonde went on. "But you're right of course. It's silly of me to assume she loves me. And it is no consolation that you should have known better too - you and all the others...

"Who is she? Will we ever know? Do we need to know?"

The blonde picked up her glass, but once more put it down, untouched.

"Did I ever tell you the story of the desert princess?"

The woman looked up, surprised by the sudden twist.

The blonde's fingers folded and refolded a napkin, as she seemed to search for words. When she found them, her voice had adopted a low and breathy quality.

"You know of caravans. They cross barren deserts to visit dusty, sunbaked cities that border on sand-filled infinity - the feet of their ancient walls buried in undulating dunes.

"Camels and dromedaries carry a wealth of colorful cloth and carpets across that sea of sand. They bring gold and silver, crates full of spices and perfumes to overwhelm our senses - musk and myrrh, cloves and cardamom. There is the sweetness of figs and dates; the forbidden dreams of opium and hashish.

"One of those caravans is led by the desert princess. She rides a tall white camel, kicking it with her bare heels - stinging it with her cruel, short crop.

"Her hair is like a black pirate's flag; her skin tanned into the darkest gold. Blue and silver silks wrap her body. Her limbs and brow and throat shine with precious stones and jingling jewelry.

"Whenever she reaches a town at the hour of dusk, she dazzles the caravan-serail with her sensuous dancing, her body kissed by the orange lips of a dying sun. Veils fly. Her tits and belly undulate, while her arms wriggle like snakes. She flows like a golden raft on waves of sickly-sweet music.

"She teases us, you know? She offers her body and takes it away. She spreads clouds of fragrance, mixed with the heady scent of her aroused sexuality. Our nostrils flare and our ears feast on the silver of her laughter.

"She mocks us, you know? She mocks us by enchanting our senses for one night - allowing us to rest with her on soft carpets and slippery satins while the Oriental sky winks with its myriads of stars. She allows us to taste her and be tasted - to fly with her to the pinnacles of lust. And she promises, you know? She gently rocks us to sleep with the sweet music of her promises.

"And when the sun once again rises, she jumps on her camel, flogging it with her naked legs. From up there she laughs at us down here, jeering at our begging hands, our begging mouths.

"She laughs and slaps the camel's rump. But when we try to claim our modest place behind her, lured by her nocturnal promises, she pushes us off. We cry out when we hit the dust below, but she already spurs her mount.

"On she goes; and we who stay behind in tears still hear her cruel laughter when she reaches the shimmering horizon."

The bar was almost empty by the time the blonde concluded her story. She looked exhausted when she took her glass and emptied it in one gulp. Then she rose from her stool.

"All that's left now," she said with a hoarse voice," is for me to slip back into my soothing shadows.

"Who knows... one day the caravan may return."

The woman watched as the blonde left, a tall but tired woman climbing the stairs to find her way back to the shadows of her lonely abode.

She remembered the merry blonde, chasing the girl through mist and flying soap suds, then kneeling in front of her to crown her as the queen of slaves.

***

A woman, disarmed.

Days passed by.

The blonde's story lingered in the woman's mind. It disturbed her, creating an entirely different image of the girl than she'd ever been able to paint herself - a portrait of cunning evil.

How could she ever believe that?

How could she see so much devious intent in the girl? She certainly was silly and frivolous, but evil? How could anyone see her like that? Or was she blind - didn't she

want

to see it?

Was it because every fiber in her body

needed

the girl to be innocent?

Sitting at her table under the balcony, sipping tea, her stare was fixed on a beautiful mane of black hair and arresting eyes, a little yellow dress that went well with a tanned olive skin.

For the first time since she'd returned to the club, the girl was there too - avoiding her, it seemed; giving no sign of recognition.

So why did she keep sitting there, following the creature with half-hidden stares - like a moonstruck lover?

She used to despise women who did what she did right now. But against every once sacred principle, she decided to watch the girl and never look away, not even when she was caught out - not even when she felt the heat of an unthinkable blush creep up her throat.

The waitress distracted her for a moment and when she looked back the girl was gone. Her eyes darted around. Then she heard a soft voice beside her.

"I'm sorry."

It was the girl. She stood at the table, looking very young, and very lost - her arms straight down her sides, her eyes lowered.

The woman's pulse raced.

She fought down a first response - it would have come out as a stutter. Forcing her hand not to tremble, she lifted her teacup and took a sip. Then she returned her gaze to the girl.

"Forgot your name, honey," she said, immediately cursing her childlike, transparent play at indifference.

The girl didn't answer.

"Of course! Now I remember," the woman went on. "You're the one I scared off.

"Now what are you sorry for, girl?"

There were tears on the girl's cheeks. One dangled from her jaw before falling. The woman felt like a heel.

"I led you on," the girl said with a hoarse voice. "You gave me what I asked. I begged for more. Then, when you did, I panicked and ran, calling you names. I'm sorry for that.

"You must hate me."

Do I, the woman thought, hate her? And if so, why?

She'd never hated girls that escaped her, even the ones cheating on her. They were obviously poor material, badly selected - her fault.

Some hurt her ego, no doubt. But in the end, she'd simply replaced them.

Of course, this one had hurt her pride, rebuking her in front of her idiot friends - calling her ugly names. But, she was drunk. And look, here she is and she's sorry, not even using the excuse that she was drunk. She's crying. She's miserable. What more do you want?

Then again, it could all be a charade, a plan, like the blonde giantess said. The desert princess...

Maybe better to forget her.

Forget her?

Words are easy if they don't need to have a meaning.

There had been nights, lately, when sleep didn't come - and she had no explanation for that. Girls had never robbed her of sleep; business had, but girls, never.

So, why this girl?

The woman kept staring at her, no doubt embarrassing the girl with her lack of response. In truth, though, the embarrassment was her own.

She felt something she hadn't felt in years: indecision.

A new and wholly unexpected thought rose from that: 'what do you want, you fool,' it said. 'Do you want her or do you want your wounded pride? Do you want to be a righteous wreck or a happy woman?'

She swallowed and forced a smile to her face.

"Don't be silly, honey," she said. "I don't hate you; I couldn't.

"Please sit with me."

She pointed at the chair opposite hers. The girl sat down, her eyes on the table where her hands rested, one covering the other. They were tanned and petite and adorable. They trembled.

The woman reached out and took one in hers, rubbing its fingers.

"Please look at me, honey," she said, the words hardly more than breathing. The brown eyes rose to find hers.

"It is me who should apologize," she went on, slowly massaging the hand. "I was greedy, impatient, forcing something on you that you weren't ready for.

"I scared you away."

"Oh no!" the girl said with vehemence. "All was fine, you were sweet. I was the one who begged to be your slave. You gave me all I wanted. It was a dream. But then I lost it and ran like a coward. I shouldn't have.

"I broke my promise."

What the girl said made a hundred conflicting emotions clash inside the woman's mind. Had she read her wrongly? The girl's eyes were calm, unreadable.

She just sat, letting her hand be rubbed, her soul be searched.

"I care deeply for you, honey," the woman said. She took the second hand and held them both. "I don't know what it means, but my mouth insists on saying it."

The girl's lips curled into an uncertain smile. A pale sun struggled through a veil of clouds.